


TMI

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Feels, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, drunk Jefferson, emotional Tjeffs, pinning, salty Alexander, this was probably a bad idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: The plan was so simple- Get Jefferson drunk enough to get some information out of him. It should have been as simple as that. After a few drinks however, Hamilton finds he's learning more about Jefferson then he bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> OMG it's been so long since I've posted a fic!! Thanks to my beta readers Ham for Ham, Clebimebi, and Exadorlion on Tumblr. You guys are the best!  
> Get ready for feels y'all!

This this a good plan.

A great one even, if Alexander does say so himself, and he absolutely does. It hurts to be so utterly brilliant all the time, always coming up with such incredible schemes. 

Jefferson’s been flaunting himself all over the white house, boasting about his plan of attack for the next cabinet debate. Apparently one so intuitive and well worked that it promises to flatten any attempts Alexander makes to push his new twelve-point plan on improved education to dust. The two of them have been squabbling over it the whole month leading up to the debate. 

It’s nothing new, the offices where the White House staff work have trasfamorined into a war zone over the past three years he and Jefferson have had occupy the same space. Back when they first met, the two used to fight about relevant issues, important topics, like where the government should stand on involvement on foreign affairs or the height of taxation. Now their arguments have devolved into petty tempertantums about the most inconsequential, stupid things. Just last week Hamilton had spent a half hour ranting to Jefferson about his stupid, eye piercing choice in clothes, going so far as to follow him back to his office and scream at the locked door until security told him to either calm down or go home, all because he found out that that southern asshat had been going around telling people not to sign his petition because of his less than pristine suit jackets.  It’s not Hamilton’s fault not everyone can afford expensive dry cleaning. The two men do everything in their power, it would seem, to make the other’s life a living hell in the most trivial ways. Jefferson will hog the printer, draping himself over it as it chugs through meaningless stacks of paper, just so Alexander can’t use it. If Hamilton sees Jefferson headed for the elevator, he jams the close door button until the stainless steel slides shut right in the other man’s stupid, perfect face. They elbow past each other in hall, ‘forget’ to cc each other in emails, don’t  send memos about meeting changes. One memorable time Alexander just so happened to forget to tell Jefferson about a venue change for meeting on national spending. The virginian showed up twenty minutes late, disheveled, out of breath and utterly pissed. He spent the whole rest of the meeting stabbing at Hamilton with his pen. The animosity between them has grown so bad over the years that the tension finally broke in an all out office brawl one day. It lasted all of a minute and a half, Hamilton walked away with a busted nose and fat lip and Jefferson had a black eye. They both got suspended for a week because of it and the president himself forced them to attend a seminar about proper workplace conduct. 

But this is different, this plan means a great deal to Hamilton, he can’t risk losing it because Jefferson is a petty asshole, resolved to fight with him on every single front, diminishing his reputation and influence until he has no choice other than to resign. So what better way to fight fire than with a can of gasoline.

 

Hamilton pauses for moment on the sidewalk, his destination only a few feet ahead of him. A small, hole in the wall sort of bar, it’s aged and fading sign painted over the door, only lit by a single flickering light. Jefferson’s favorite bar, the only place in New York that sells expensive, well-aged wine alongside stall beer. Alexander only knows about it because Lafayette mentioned once in passing that this is where he and Jefferson go when he gets back from France. 

“It is like those old fashioned bars from the sixties” he’d told Hamilton excitedly. “Low lit and cozy. I will ‘ave to take you all some time!”

Quickly Alexander sweeps his hair back into a low, loose ponytail at the base of his neck. The plan is to get Jefferson very drunk, so drunk that his loose lips will spill some secrets about his devious plan to undermine him. With the debate just a week away now, Hamilton needs all the information he can get. Plus the look of pure horror on Jefferson’s face when he finds out it was him who told Alexander everything will be worth the few hours he’s forced to spend in his presence. 

Straightening out his wrinkled shirt front, Alexander steps into the bar. 

The whole place reeks of cheap scotch, the air hazy with the smoke of a dozen or so cigars, each puff adding to the acrid smell. Slow, jazzy music spills smoothly from wall speakers, dulling the babble in the tiny bar to a low rumble.  Hamilton’s gaze darts over the room, past the old, punchy businessmen in their swelling suits, and the lithe men wearing gold chains and sly smiles until he finally spot the familiar proof of Jefferson’s wild hair. He’s sequestered himself off in a booth near the back. Hiding from prying eyes in the low light, leaning back against the red leather seats as he swirls his long stemmed drink glass. The pretentious fuck. 

Alexander marches over to the bar and orders two whiskeys from the pretty redhead behind it. She sets them down with flushing and flirty smile, which he returns in full, though he has no intentions of acting on it tonight. He is here for work after all, and he hasn't really been with anyone in the two months since... His thumb rubs into the pale band of skin on his ring finger subconsciously.

No time to dwell.

He takes a shot in each hand and weaves his way through the mass of tightly cramped together tables to where Jefferson sits, carefully trying not to spill any of the liquid onto his fingers. He sets the tiny glasses down with more force than probably needed, and Jefferson visibly jumps, torn from his thoughts only to have Alexander grinning impishly down at him. 

He groans, sinking further down in his seat. “Is no place sacred to you?” Jefferson asks, glaring up at him. 

“Free country.” Hamilton chirps, sliding into the booth opposite the virginian. “You don’t get to decide who can and can’t come to which bar.”

Jefferson continues to swirl the contents of his glass with a lazy roll of his wrist. “Yes, but why did you have to come and sit here, right by me? It’s bad enough to have to put up with your nonsense at work, I don’t need it in the one place I can go to get away from you.” he sighs. 

Annoyance prickles along Hamilton’s spine. He wanted to slam his fists down on the scuffed up tabletop and shout how it’s not his ideas that are the nonsense ones. But for once in his life he bites his tongue, pulling on some old advice from his once friend Aaron Burr.

“Talk less Alexander.” he’d said, laying a careful had on his shoulder. “And - try smiling a bit more. You’ll catch more flies with honey.”

As cliche as the advice was, it might do him some good, seeing as he’s attempting to charm Jefferson into a drunken stupor. 

He forces a tight lipped smile onto his face, hoping that what he’s doing with his mouth looks somewhat natural. “I was hoping that we might not fight tonight, seeing as that’s all we ever do.”

Jefferson gives him a once over, dark eyes narrowing to slits. “What's your game Hamilton?”

“No game” Alexander says smoothly. “I just figured it was time we got over our pettiness and act like grown men, even for just one night would be a start.” the lies burn in the back of his throat. They tear at the fake smile cemented to his face. He takes a shot in hand and gingerly raises. “At least have one drink, humor me Jefferson”

Jefferson still doesn’t look convinced, but he wraps his long fingers around the other glass, mimicking Hamilton’s gesture.

Alexander pushes his smile a little wider.

“To comradery.” he toast.

“To skepticism.” Jefferson adds, tentatively clinking his glass to Hamilton, before they both knock the shot back. 

Yes, Hamilton thinks, this was a very good plan indeed. 

  
  


This was a horrible plan. 

 

Three more shots of hard liquor and two cheap beers later and the only thing Alexander has discovered is Jefferson's very low tolerance for alcohol. Over the past two hours, the secretary treasury has sat and watched as Jefferson’s speech, usually so vivid and rich in vocabulary, devolved into a stuttering, slurred mess. Low incoherent mumbling, laced heavily with his thick virginian accent that slows him to such a dragging pace that Hamilton fears he may pass out waiting from him to finish a sentence. During this time he has gotten a lot of information out of the southern, he was right to assume Jefferson would have loose lips when inebriated, however, none of what  he’s said has been of any real import. Sure, Hamilton’s been have a great time coxing the other man into sharing information about all sorts of embarrassing things that he can use as blackmail later, but every time he’s tried to steer the conversation towards politics, Jefferson simply pouts, whining about how he doesn’t like to talk about it outside of work. 

Alexander clicks off his phone, turning off the camera,  and slips in back into his pocket with a little, defeated sigh. At some point during the wasted conversation, his hair had slipped out of it’s ponytail, he runs his fingers through it a few times. He didn’t drink as much as Jefferson, but he’s still a little buzzed. Not enough that the room is  spinning, but enough to make the lights seem to glow a little brighter. 

Beside him, Jefferson is gesturing a waitress over. “Two more alcohols over here, ma'am” he calls, words lost in his drunken slur. 

Hamilton carefully takes the empty bottle he’s swinging from his weak grasp. “I think we’re done for the night.”

Jefferson glares at him, practically sprawling himself over the booth seat. “Asshole.” he hisses. “Never let me have any fun.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Yup, I’m just a big old villain aren't I. Come on, let's get you home so you can sleep this off.”

A lazy, lopsided grin spread across the other man's face. Hamilton hadn’t noticed it before, but Jefferson has a really wonderful smile. Wide, and so blindingly bright that it makes his chest actually ache.

“Aww, you care about me” he slurs.

“No.” Hamilton corrects. “I just don’t want to have to deal with your sorry drunk ass anymore. Now give me your hand.”

Jefferson offers a limp wrist, letting Alexander do all the work of hauling him to his feet. He sways unsteadily from a moment, before his huge six-foot-two frame comes stumbling against Hamilton. The immigrant hardly has the time to prepare himself for the sudden weight. 

“Whoops!” Jefferson starts laughing, arms draped across Alexander’s shoulders for support. “I love alcohol.”

Hamilton bristles, not justifying the statement with a response. He was just going to shove the southern in a taxi and send him on his way, but the man can barely stand on his own. If he lets him loose in the city he’ll probably get mugged or seriously hurt, or worse. Alexander may not agree with Jefferson, but he’s not utterly heartless, he can’t let that happen.  

Still he doesn’t like having the taller man hanging all over him, hot breath on his neck sending chills down his spine, because Hamilton is petty, not blind. He knowns Jefferson is ridiculously attractive. Tall and fit, with deep brown eyes framed by inky black lashes and a jawline just begging to be bit along. What he wouldn’t give for one fling with this living piece of art, but his pride will never let he make the first move. He’d sooner give up his position as Secretary of Treasury then come pleading to Jefferson for sex. 

He doesn’t really have many options here. If tries to call Madison, have him come and pick up the drunken Secretary of State, Alexander is sure he’ll tell HR that he tried to kill him via alcohol poisoning and really, Alexander doesn’t think he could handle another week off of work, and that’s if Madison would even take his call. He sighs, resigned to his fate.    
“Jefferson?” he asks shuffling around with his wallet to toss down a couple of bills to cover their drinks. The taller man simply wraps himself tighter around Hamilton, mumbling incoherently into the collar of his button up.  _ “Jefferson?” _

“Whaaaaaat.” Jefferson whines, turing a glassy eye on  Alexander. 

“Did you drive yourself here?”

The virginian pauses from a moment, then nods his head, slowly. Yes.

Hamilton rest a careful hand on his back and shuffles them in the direction of the exit. The fresh night at hits him like a ton of bricks after being locked away in that warm, sweetly scented room from so long. “Where’d you park?”

The coolness of the outside seems to sober Jefferson up, ever so slightly. 

“I drove here.” he mumbles to himself “I drove in my car here. And I parked.... I parked...” Suddenly he swings the arm not grappling with Alexander up and out. “Over there.”

Hamilton spots the simple parking lot across the street that he must be referring to. Carefully and quickly, he guilds the two of them across the street, struggle against Jefferson’s dragging feet. 

They find his car with no problem, it’s the shiny black Lincoln parked near the front of the lot. When they reach it, Hamilton leans Jefferson against the door. 

“Keys?” he holds out his hand, palm up.

Jefferson slap it, like it’s some stupid high five he’s asking for, chuckling under his breath.

Alexander’s teeth start to grind together, it’s too damn late at night for this, and he never signed on to be a babysitter to drunken politicians. “Keys.” he says again, more firmly this time. 

Jefferson leans heavily against the car.  “Back pocket.” he mutters, eyes flickering shut.

Hamilton grimaces. “You’re useless”

Just great, because he really wanted to be rooting around in he rivals pants this evening. With a huff he drags Jefferson forward enough that he can slip a hand into his back right pocket. Luckily he finds the keys on the first try, fingers closing around the cool key ring. Unluckily, the virginian decided to comment. 

He chuckles drunkenly, eyes unfocused as he gazes down at Alexander. 

“Hamilton’s hand is on my ass.” he giggles “You’re grabbing my ass.”

Hamilton flushes hot along his neck. “I am not” he barks. “I’m grabbing your stupid keys.”

“Nu-uh” Jefferson shakes his head, dark curls bouncing. “You’re grabbing my aaaaass”

“Am not!” he snaps back.   
“Are too”

Hamilton sighs heavily. “You know what? I’m not arguing this with you.”

Hot and embarrassed, Alexander pulls the keys out and unlocks the car. Quickly he shoves Jefferson inside, leaning over to buckle his seatbelt for  him because he’s sure the man wouldn’t be able to do it himself. The lock clicks into place.

“You’re being nice to me” Jefferson comments. The sentence is slow and dragging on every vowel. 

“No I’m not” Hamilton responds dumbly. 

Technically he is being nice to Jefferson, he’s just so used to them always fighting that the words sort of slipped out of their own accord. A force of habit, so used to taking the opposing side it doesn’t really matter what they’re talking about. 

The virginian ignores him. “Why are you being nice to me?” he blinks blearily up at him, and suddenly Alexander finds himself tongue tied. 

He quickly swallows down the lump in his throat. “Because it’s the right thing to do, don’t take it personally Jefferson, I still hate you.”

Jefferson bobs his head in agreement. “Good good....”

Hamilton shuts his car door with a snap, before hurrying around to the driver's side. He slides in, jams the keys into the ignition and revs the car up, trying to not focus on how oddly adorable, if not a little annoying Jefferson is as babbling drunk, or how sexy his accent is on his tongue. 

He clicks his own seat belt into place. “A’right Jefferson, where’s  your house?”

“Virginia.” Comes his slurred response.

Alexander feels his pacitance starting to run thin. “No, not Monticello, I’m not driving you all the way down to Virginia. What’s your address?” 

“Nine-three-one Thomas Jefferson Pkwy, Charlottesville” the other man supplies. 

“No goddamn it, where in DC do you live?” Alexander says, slowly, like talking to a child. 

Jefferson shakes his head, sliding down in his seat until the strap of his belt catches on his chin and his knees hit the glove compartment. “Why? DC’s not my home.”

Hamilton slams his hands against the steering wheel. He’s too tired and too buzzed to be dealing with this right now. “Fuck it,” he breaths.  “Fuck it, you can just stay at my place tonight. You’d just better not vomit on my carpet.”

The other man makes a small noise, a gentle little hum. When Alexander peers over at him, Jefferson has her face pressed to the cool glass, eyes closed. Seem like the booze in his system is making him sleepy, which is a relief. 

The drive back to Hamilton apartment takes ten, uneventful minutes, speeding down the slightly less crowded streets of DC. When they get back to his building, Hamilton parks the car in the empty spot that belongs to him. Only rich assholes like Jefferson live in the heart of the city and still have a car. Traffic here is so bad that public transportation, or even just walking tends to be faster. 

Once they’re parked, Hamilton jostles Jefferson in a state of semi consciousness and heaves him out of the passenger seat and towards the front doors, wrapping his arm around his shoulders for support. The walk to the elevator goes well enough, but once the silvery door slide shut some shitty country song start buzzing softly from the speakers. It makes Alexander want to slam his head through the wall, but Jefferson loves it and when they step out onto the fifth floor landing he’s still got his arms slung tightly around Alexander’s neck, slurring his way through the first verse, because apparently that’s the only part he remembers. 

“Get up on the hood of my daddy’s tractor~ up on the tool boooox, girl can’t wait to watch you do your thiiiiiing~” he sings, loudly in the empty hallway. The only thing keeping Alexander from strangling him is the fact that Jefferson has a pretty nice voice and isn’t horribly off key, though the song is making his skin crawl. “Country girl shake it for meee girl, shake it for mee girl, shake it for meeeeee~”

Hamilton hurries them down the hall before Jefferson can wake the neighbors, only barely struggling under his weight, but when he tries to detangle the Virginian’s arms from him, he just clings on tighter, like some needy snake. Eventually Hamilton gives up on trying to free himself from Jefferson’s vice like grip and insteads moves to unlock his door with one hand, the other clutching at the small of the taller man’s  back to keep him upright, cursing under his breath as he does so. 

While he’s fighting to jimmy the key into his old lock, he feels a hand, big and warm, groping over his backside. Hamilton sucks in a breath at the unexpected contact, he nearly drops his keys. Jefferson is kneading one hand into his ass, with the other still holding himself upright on Alexander’s shoulder, and Alexander wishes he had the strength to tell him to knock it off but, it’s such an unexpectedly nice feeling. Jefferson leans in close, breath washing over his neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake.    
“I ever told you what a nice ass you got?” Jefferson mutters directly into his ear. Hamilton has to fight off the shudder that threatens to wrack his body. “Cause you’ve got a great ass. So distracting, ‘specially when you’re wearing those jeans, the black ones I like so much.”

Jefferson thinks he has a nice ass, Hamilton’s brain supplies dumbly, key half in the lock, still being playful felt up. Jefferson thinks he has a great ass, which means he must have had to look at his ass at some point. Does that mean-? Could it mean that Jefferson is into him? That’s stupid, right? It’s just the alcohol talking, it has to be. 

“Love watching you walk away in those.” he continues. “Makes me wanna unwrap this ass like the gift it is.”

It’s the scrape of stubble across the back of his neck that plunges Hamilton back into reality, a shiver racing up his spine at the feeling.  He practically leaps out of Jefferson’s arms, thrashing and shoving Jefferson away. His heart hammers in his ears. 

“Quit it ya horny bastard” he squeaks, turning back to unlock the door with heat burning in his cheeks and ears. “You’re only saying this shit cause you're drunk off your ass.”

The door swings forward and Hamilton grabs Jefferson’s forearm, dragging him inside his tiny apartment. The whole room is washed in shades of gray, shadows creeping along the floor and walls as the distant lights from the street below accent furniture with splashes of pales pinks and blues and greens. Hamilton marches them inside and shuts the door firmly behind them, not even bothering with the lights. 

“Probably” Jefferson sighs, his long legs about as useful as bricks of lead. He allows himself to be guided over to the couch, which he collapses onto unceremoniously. “Sober Thomas doesn’t have enough courage. That’s why he has to drink before giving speeches.”

Alexander pauses, blinking confusedly down at the drunk on his sofa. “You drink before your speeches?”

Jefferson bobs his head slowly, eyes sliding in and out of focus. “Sober Thomas hates public speaking. He hates it so much that he can’t breathe sometimes. Too many eyes, too many people.” he shudders, arms coming to wrap around himself protectively. “I hate public speaking. Have to have one drink before you’ll get me on stage.”

“I didn’t know that” Hamilton mutters.

Jefferson sinks deeper into the cushions. “I don’t talk about it. Don’t want cheap pity, or people thinking I can’t do my job”

Hamilton is, bewildered to say the least. In all the years he’s worked with Jefferson, he’s never known him to have any sort of social anxiety. The man exudes charm. A smooth talker who can woo just about anyone with his careful, clever words. He flaunts himself all over work, posture tall and strides wide, and a neon sign draped around his neck that flashes ‘look at me, pay attention to me’ would be more subtle than his wardrobe choices. So the fact that he suffers from such violent anxiety that he has to drink to cope with it makes Alexander’s stomach drop. That’s something private, something he wasn’t supposed to know, something Jefferson never would have told him if he were sober. The new knowledge feels perverse, like he’s somehow taken advantage of Jefferson, and, while that may have been his intentions at first, he only planned to get trivial, work related information, not something so seriously personal. The intimacy of the secret rolls though his head and his stomach, and he feels weird all over. 

He pushes the information to the back of his thoughts, out of sight out of mind, and hopes Jefferson won’t remember telling him in the morning. He doesn’t like the strangely protective way it makes him think about the southerner. Instead of dwelling on it, he helps Jefferson get situated on the sofa. The taller man stretches out over it, head against the armrest, legs dangling off the other side. God, he’s freakishly big on Alexander's tiny couch. 

“Jefferson.” Hamilton coxes. “Jefferson, hey.”

“Hummmmm” the virginian can hardly keep his eyes open. 

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? You can sleep on my couch tonight.”

He makes a soft noise of appreciation, snuggling deeper into himself. 

Hamilton sighs. “Don’t move, alright? I’ll be right back.”

He leaves Jefferson on the sofa, shuffling through the dark to the kitchen, and flips on the soft light over the stove. A hand comes up to run roughly through his hair. This whole night has turned into one big fucking disaster. All Hamilton can hope is that he’ll be able to come up with some bullshit excuse as to why Jefferson is on his sofa, reeking of beer and cigars and in the same cloths as the day before by the time he sleeps this off. He should get some sort of metal for dealing with the drunken ass for so long. That’s the directions he in which he tries to focus his thoughts as he fills a glass with water from the tap, not the fact that Jefferson thinks he has a great ass. It must be true, drunks don’t lie, but even if it is, that doesn’t mean he’d be even slightly interested when he’s sober, and Hamilton would never stoop so low as to take advantage of him in this state. He shuts off the tap and heads back to the living room.

Jefferson is sprawled out on the floor, face down on the carpeting when he gets back. 

“Jefferson, why are you on the floor?” he says, voice stiff and laced with annoyance.

“‘M not on the floor.” comes Jefferson’s muffled response. 

Alexander sighs so deeply he thinks his soul may actually leave his body. He sets the glass down on the end table before squatting down beside the other man. “Yeah, you are, come here.”

Gingerly he helps Jefferson lay back down on the couch. He blinks slowly at Hamilton, then the floor, then back up.   
“I guess I was.” he mumbles. “How’d that happen?”

“Because you’re a drunk asshole, now here-” Hamilton shoves the glass of water into Jefferson fumbling hands. “Drink all of this and go the fuck to sleep. I’m going to bed. Shout if you need anything.”

He straightens, ready to go to bed and forget about this whole, awkward night. 

Jefferson nods. “Thanks for being so nice.”

“Don’t mention it.” Hamilton grumbles. “Seriously, never mention this ever again, it might make me sick.”

With that, he leaves Jefferson to fend for himself for the rest of the night. He heads back to his room, strips off his wrinkled button up and dirtied slacks and dons a pair of worn sweats and a big white t-shirt, exhausted, and finally ready to let sleep overtake him. However, he doesn’t even get the covers pulled back before he hears the distant sound of his name being called.

“Alexaaaaaaaandeeeeeeeer” Jefferson wails from the other room. 

Hamilton’s patience is hurtling towards its breaking point at lightening speed. He throws the cover down and  storms back into the sitting room, not anxious to see what sort of trouble his unexpected guest has gotten himself into in the three minutes he’s been gone. 

He finds Jefferson, once again on the floor. Back to the sofa, longs legs drawn up around him. The front of his shirt and pants completely soaked through, the empty glass hanging limply from his fingers. 

He stares unfocused at Alexander. “I need more water”

“Oh for the sake of ever loving FUCK Jefferson!” he cries, hands embedding themselves in his hair. “I can’t leave you alone can I? And why the hell are you on the floor again!?” Hamilton pauses, gulping down a much needed calming breath of air. “Don’t fucking move, and don't fucking touch anything, alright?!”

He stomps back into his room, rummaging through his drawers until he comes up with a spare set of clothes for Jefferson. Stupid drunk jackass, he thinks viciously. It’s nearly one in the morning, Alexander is exhausted, coming off a buzz and never agreed to take care of this pathetic man child. He should have just sucked it up and called Madison, then this would be his problem, not Hamilton’s and he could have actually gotten some sleep tonight, not just a big fucking mess on his carpet. 

He wads the clothes up in a tight ball in his hands, striding briskly around the couch once more. Jefferson is exactly where he left him, clumsily examining the empty glass, but his attention perks in the direction of Hamilton’s footsteps. The disgruntled treasury secretary hurls the bundle of cloths at him, pegging him in the face. 

“Put these on, asshole. Then I’m going to bed, and you could fall out the window for all I care.” Alexander bristles, folding his arms tightly over his front. “I don’t care if you sleep on the floor, just don’t bother me, alright.”

“.... sorry” Jefferson says it so softly Hamilton almost misses it. “‘M sorry”

“What?” he asks dumbly

Jefferson looks up from the spare clothes in his loose grasp to gaze at him, eyes big and misty. Slowly, fat tears start rolling down his cheeks, and like with a car wreck, Alexander can’t look away. All he can do is stare numbly as the other man starts to blubber, something he’s never thought he’d see in his lifetime.

Jefferson brings a hand to his face, kneading the heel of his palm into his eye as he cries, cries right there in the middle of Hamilton’s living room. “”M sorry. I- I don’t mean to piss you off all the time. I just- I don’t try to make you mad, but when you’re around I say stupid stuff and do dumb things, and you get so mad at me. ‘M sorry, I don’t mean to. But it's- I can’t think clearly when you’re around and- and-” he chokes on a whimper, blinking up at Alexander. “Don’t be mad.”

“I- I’m not mad.” Hamilton tries, inching towards him so slowly, you’d think he’d grown a second head. “I mean, sure I’m a little annoyed but- it’s was an accident? Please don’t cry, man, it’s freaking me out.”

For the second time that night, he hoists Jefferson off the floor and sets him on the couch. He notices with jolt that the man is trembling as he sits down beside him. Alexander’s at a loss, this was never something he thought he’d have to deal with and he's completely unprepared to handle, drunk, sobbing Thomas Jefferson. Awkwardly, he pats his shaking shoulders, praying he’ll calm down soon. 

“I’m not mad” he tries again. “I’m not mad, I’m just- fucking tired, and drunk, and sore from having to haul your huge ass all over tonight.”

Jefferson sniffles peering over at him. “You’re not mad?”

“No” Alexander sighs, heavily. “Not mad.”

“Okay” he mutters. “‘M sorry”

“Stop apologizing.’ Hamilton berates. Jefferson’s stopped crying so he stands carefully  “I’m gonna leave so you can change, alright? And I’ll see you in the morning.” he turns to his room, towards his bed he’s going to hide in until morning.

“Wait-!” Jefferson calls, and Alexander turns back just in time to watch him tumble of the sofa once more, arm outstretched and reaching towards him. The fall doesn’t faze him, he just peers sadly up at Hamilton from the floor. “Alexander wait.”

Hamilton groans, leaning down to loop an arm under the other man’s armpits. “Is this how you keep getting on the floor?”

Jefferson nods, winding himself around Hamilton like ivy clinging to the side of an old house, and Hamilton’s heart misses a beat as a result. “You keep leaving.” he whimpers. 

Hamilton rubs his free hand roughly over his face. “Come on Jefferson, you can sleep in my bed, that way there’s less of a chance of you and your long ass legs falling off.”

“Really?” The virginian immediately brightens, and Alexander glowers at him. Fucking crocodile tears, the sly bastard.

He carefully maneuvers them though the dark, avoiding anything Jefferson’s dead weight could break. “Yeah really, you can take the bed, and i’ll just sleep on the sofa, it’s fine.”

“You’re being nice again.” Jefferson mumbles.

Hamilton’s brows knit together. “Yup”

Honestly, what he’s doing makes no sense. Sure, he may owe Jefferson because, really, it’s his fault he got so drunk in the first place, but taking him in for the night should have been payment enough. He doesn’t have to give up his bed. Why the fuck should he care if Jefferson sleeps on the floor, drenched and drunk and sobbing. It’s not his problem, him and Jefferson aren’t friends, hell they can barely stand to be in the same room together from more than twenty minutes under normal circumstances. So why then, why does Hamilton feel so compelled to go the extra mile this time? God knows he’s not a nice enough person. Maybe, it’s because Jefferson looks so utterly pathetic like this, tear stained face and rambling about his crippling social anxiety. 

He pushes Jefferson into the room first, lingering in the doorway. “Go on and change and get in the bed.” he instructs the taller man. Jesus, being the only sober one is never fun, it’s like being the only adult at a children’s party, it’s annoying and it sucks and it’s your job to keep everyone from getting hurt. 

Jefferson fidgets with the cloths in his arms. “You won’t leave, will you?”

“I guess not.” Alexander sighs. 

“Alright.”

Apparently that’s all the convincing he needs because Jefferson shuts the door with a snap. He changes pretty quick and fumbles the door back open when he’s done, looking a sight in Hamilton’s sweat pants that were definitely not made for someone that tall. They hang at least three inches above his bare ankles.The old blue tee with the peeled of decal fits him just fine,  thankfully Alexander likes oversized t shirts. He- actually looks kinda cute like this, with exposed ankles and fidgeting toes. This has just been a night of impossibilities, again, never in his lifetime would he have thought he’d refer to Jefferson as cute. 

“Right- bed” he points towards the mattress. There are about a million other contexts he would have rather said that in that don’t involve him playing babysitter.

Jefferson does as he’s told, making his way to the bed with only some mild stumbling. Alexander is just happy he doesn’t have to hold him upright. He collapses onto the bed, looking as exhausted as Alexander feels, making quick work of burying himself in the covers. 

He hums gently into the pillows. “Your bed is shitty.” he mumbles, eyes falling closed.

“Gee, thanks asshole.” Hamilton grumbles. “My only joy in this is that you’re going to have a monster hangover in the morning.” he snatchs a pillow from the bed.

“Stay.” the other man says suddenly, peeking out from between the sheets. “Please stay, I don’t want to sleep by myself tonight. I’m tired of empty beds.”

Hamilton should say no, walk out and shut the door behind him, He’ll spend an uncomfortable night on the couch, but at least things won’t get any weirder, and tomorrow, when Jefferson is hungover and pissed, the last remaining dregs of this strange protectiveness will shrivel up and die. But his comment hits to close to home. Alexander get what he means about empty beds. They feel cold and void without a warm body beside you, especially if you’ve shared one with a partner for years. Nights without Eliza have been lonely, and he’s dying for some companionship right now. Jefferson is the only one here, so he’ll have to do. 

“Fine, scoot.” Hamilton sighs, climbing into the bed beside Jefferson, pulling the covers up around him. “No talking though, just go the fuck to sleep.”

Jefferson nods mutely, eyes struggling to stay open. “Thanks- oh shit i talked, sorry I’ll shut up now.”

Alexander huffs, rolls onto his side and lets the warmth of his companio’ns body wash over him while he tries to forget it’s Jefferson he’s sharing a bed with. The silence last for a good while, he watches the softly glowing numbers of his clock tick slowly forward towards one thirty. But just as he thinks Jefferson has fallen asleep, a faint voice meets his ears. 

“I miss Martha.” he mutters.

Hamilton groans into his pillow, really not interested in what ever drunken sob story he’s about to be told. “Jefferson, go-”

The sheets around him shift. “Say my name.”

“ _ Jefferson”  _ Alexander warns

“Say my  _ name _ . My real name, please.” he begs

Hamilton rolls onto his side, all  geared up to tell the bastard off. That if he doesn’t shut the hell up, Alexander going to take both pillows and the bed sheets and go sleep on the couch like he’d intended. But when he turns he’s met with Jefferson face, hair wild falling softly around his cheeks, eyes big and glassy and desperate. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Thomas” he whispers, letting the name evaporate like smoke into the night. 

Thomas shudders. “I miss being held.” he sighs, moving to lay on his back. “I haven't had anyone to hold since Martha died, I miss that.”

Hamilton stomach rolls. “Martha was-?”

“My wife.” Jefferson nods staring up the ceiling. “A million, million years ago. I miss her all the time.”

“I get that” Alexander mutters, racking his gaze across Jefferson’s profile. “I- lost someone dear to me too...”

“I sucks doesn’t it? Not to have someone to hold. I miss it so much. But then sometimes, I miss being held too. And I haven’t been held in so many years.” a weak chuckle escapes him. “What is it about girls always wantin’ you to cuddle them? Ya know? Like sometimes I wanna be the little spoon.”

Alexander laughs too. “Yeah”

“And I miss being in love, fuck. I miss  _ being _ loved.’ Thomas continues, words slurring either with fatigue or booze, or both. “I hate this, hate feeling lonely.”  he sound like he’s on the verge of breaking down again, the tenor of his voice quivering. He turns back to Alexander. “Are we friends?”

“No, Jefferso-”

“Thomas-”

He sighs. “No Thomas, we’re not friends.”

Jefferson studies him for a moment. “Then what are we?”

“I dunno. Rivals, I guess. Political enemies?” Alexander supplies lamely.

“Then why are you being so nice to me?” Thomas asks softly. 

“Because-” Hamilton starts, but where does he even go from here. He crossed the line of ‘because it's the nice thing to do’  as soon as he offered up his bed, and lit the fucker on fire when he got in it with Jefferson. He can’t really deny anymore that some secret little part of him actually cares about the man. Maybe even more than just friendly concern, because maybe he thinks a little more of him then just a sexy piece in a flamboyant suit. Thomas is smart, and charming, and passionate, but he’s also insecure and lonely, and honestly, all Hamilton wants to do right now is wrap him up in big sweater and feed him fucking soup, like couples do. It’s sickening. 

“Is it because you hate me?” Jefferson asks.

“I don’t hate you.” Alexander interjects.

The other man shakes his head. “That’s what you said earlier, that you hate me.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

Jefferson sighs deep in his chest, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling once more. “I love you” he says gently. “But you’re so fuckin annoying sometimes.”

Alexander is sure his fucking heart just stopped. Blood roars in his ears and face as he replays the words again in his head. “What did you just say?” he hisses

“You’re fuckin annoying.”

“No!” Hamilton screeches, hurriedly pushing himself into something akin to a seated position. “Before that, what did you say before that?!”

Thomas blinks, then a smirk works it’s way over his features, lethal like the ones he uses during cabinet debates. He follows Alexander’s lead, slowly pushing himself up until he’s leaning into his personal space.

“I said-” he mumbles, bring a hand up to cradle Hamilton’s jaw. Alexander shivers under the feel of it, trying not to preen under the touch. “I said I love you.”

And in the next moments, Alexander is only sure of three things.

One, the sensation of Jefferson’s mouth colliding with his own. Hot breath on his lips, too thick to breath though, the sound of their teeth clacking together with the ferocity with which Thomas kisses. Like a starved and dying man, and nearly instantly Hamilton is kissing back, helpless to do anything more then curl his fingers into his shirt front

Two, the feeling of long, wonderful fingers running through his hair. They stroke down from his temple and gather the thick locks they find together at the base of his neck, Nails against his scalp blaze a trail of sparks that ignite all down his spine, until his toes curl inward. 

Three, Jefferson just told him he’s in love with him. His loose lips betraying him and spilling a secret guarded by years of verbal abuse and icy glares that Hamilton was quick to return, because maybe, he thinks vaguely, maybe he was trying to compensate for something too. Maybe he knew all along that there was something under the loathing, an unsung respect that they shared for one another but were both to proud to raise their voices. But Thomas is hammered and Alexander is drunk on the fullness of his lips mashed to his own, so they both let the song ring interrupted, let it crescendo and hit the key change, the melody morphing into something new and beautiful. Thomas said he loves him, and the words make Alexander’s chest tighten more than the soft sounds, the muffled moans that fill the quiet room. 

They break, if only barely. Just enough to greedily gulp down some much needed air, before Jefferson’s equally greedy mouth finds his lips once more. He lick sloppily into Hamilton’s mouth, tongue stroking the roof of his mouth, grazing over the back of his teeth and Hamilton moans obscenely, the sound bubbling up desperately from the center of his chest. His fingers curl tighter into Thomas’ shirt front, dragging him impossibly closer, until he’s half lying between his legs. He feels fingertips on his cheek, tracing a clumsy path down his jaw and still they kiss. And kiss and kiss until Hamilton is trembling, lungs devoid of air to offer up. He has to wrench himself back from those tempting lips, gasping shallowing for the air he so desperately needs, eyes still clamped shut. 

There’s a tug at the hem of his shirt. A suggestion, a question, a plea.

“Alexander” Thomas sighs, allowing the name to fan across the flushed skin of his neck. “Make love to me.”

Hamilton’s eyes snap wide open, suddenly feeling as though he’s just swallowed a whole bag of ice.   
“Whaa-a?” he stammers, at a loss. 

Jefferson places a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lays them messily along his jaw before descending down to his neck. “Make love to me, please.” he whines again, trying to pull him down into the mattress. “Tired of being lonely. Please Alexander, please.”

There are hands under his shirt now, palms slowly fumbling along the places where his body dips and curves, but Hamilton shakes his head wildly, hair catching his mouth. He quickly clasps Jefferson’s wrist and wrenched them away. 

“N-No” he chokes, fighting hard against the heat racing through his body. This isn't right, this isn’t fair. “You’re drunk and-!”

Jefferson stares at him imploringly for a moment. Then, when he sees that Alexander has no intention of wavering,  he rolls off of him, back to his side of the bed, where he lays on his back and glares at the ceiling. 

“Why do you have to fight me on everything?” the virginian grumbles. “Bastard.”

Hamilton signs, attempting to flatten out his mussed up hair while willing his racing heart to slow and settle. “Listen- Jefferson-

“Thomas”

“-Thomas.’ the name feels heavier with the taste of its owner on his tongue, like stale, sour beer. He shifts on the bed so he’s lying right beside him, carefully raising a hand to comb through Jefferson’s hair, because he has to know, now before he never get another chance, if it’s really as soft as it looks. “It’s not that I don't want to- god, that’s not it at all. It’s just, you’re drunk, and I- it wouldn't be fair for me to take advantage of you like that. I don’t want you to do anything you might regret in the morning.” 

_ Because I care about you _ , he carefully omits.

A languid sigh leaves Thomas’ kiss swollen lips. “I hate that you’re so smart. Damn it, why do you have to be so smart, it’s annoying...”

And just like that, the tension starts to ebb from the room. Hamilton lets out a breathy laugh.

“Ha! I knew you always thought I was smart, you stubborn asshole!” he cries, slapping the other man on the shoulder. “I can’t wait to see the look on you face tomorrow when I tell you how you finally admitted it!”

Slowly, he settles back against the pillows, close but not quite touching Thomas. Everything is still too new, too raw. The silence between them is thick, and Alexander watches the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of his- his what exactly? His friend? His enemy? His lover?

Eventually, exhausted with the effort of keeping up with his own speeding thought, Hamilton decides on ‘his Thomas’ and leaves the matter for tomorrow. 

“Alexander?” Jefferson whispers, voice slow and heavy.

‘’Yeah?”

“‘M tired.” he mutters back. “I’m so damn tired.Hold me. ”

A blush creeps its way up Hamilton’s neck, which is stupid, because Jefferson was basically tongue fucking his tonsils a minute ago. Yet the sheer domesticity of the action makes his hands tremble as he settles behind him, chest flush to back, and brings them around to Jefferson’s front, fingers winding their way into the fabric. The other man hums contentedly, leaning back in Alexander’s arms and going completely boneless. It's a comforting weight against Hamilton’s chest. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he swears he can feel the faint _ thump ba dum _ of Thomas’ heart though his ribcage.

“Fine-” Hamilton yawns, muffling the sound in Thomas’ broad shoulder. He smells like him in his t shirt and suddenly he never wants Thomas to wear anything else ever again. Just this faded t shirt that smells like the both of them. “Fine. But no sex, okay. Wait until you’ve sobered up then- then if you still want to later- i might not- be totally opposed to- maybe considering it-” he squeaks out the last part, hardly able to form the words because his pridefulness is trying to choke them out.

“Shhhhh- Alexander, people are trying to sleep.” Jefferson chastises.

Hamilton lets  his eyes flutter shut. “Shut up, asshole”

  
  


When Hamilton wakes, it's with a muffled, disgusting groan, the sound that emanates from somewhere in the back of his throat and sticks to his tounge. He peels his heavy eyes open, blinking away the haze of sleep until he can read the dull red lights on his clock. 

Three forty eight

He groans again, snuggling down into the warmth enveloping him. Which is odd, because he vaguely remembers playing big spoon before passing out. Seem that he and Jefferson have somehow switched places while he was asleep. Not that Alexander really minds. Everything about Jefferson is firm and solid and oh so warm. Like his arms, wound tight around his waist, heavy on his side in way that makes a sleepy smile curl along Hamilton’s lips. His chest, firm, but yielding enough for him to just sink right into, bathing him in the smell of skin, of their mingled scents, and the slightest hint of bar floor thrown it. His cock, hard and pressed right to the cleft of his ass.

 

Wait a minute.

  
  


Alexander’s heart starts racing, blood roaring his his ears like the revv of an old car engine, suddenly not sleepy anymore. No, now he’s fully wake, tense and trying very hard not go into a panic, shouting and kicking Thomas off,  because he’s hard. So hard right against him. And he has no idea what to do. He takes a deep breath in through his nose. Behind him Jefferson lets loose a breathy moan, burying his face in Hamilton’s hair. A wave of goosebumps rise over Hamilton’s skin, up his arms and down his sides and over his thighs and he tries to bite back his tension but when he feels the shift of Jefferson’s hips along his back and hears the horse groan that accompanies it, he decides it's a valid time start freaking the fuck out. 

A small squeak escapes his lips.

“Jefferson.  _ Jefferson _ ” nothing. “Thomas!” he whispers harshly.

Thomas shifts again, tightening his hold on Alexander’s waist, dragging him closer. “- fuck Hamilton, ‘m sleeping”

“You’re hard” Alexander stresses, stock still and unsure how to proceed. This has to be the most awkward situation he’s ever found himself in.

He senses Jefferson tense, briefly, before he settles fully back against Hamilton. Still hard, still painfully  hard against his ass. “Seems I am.” he mumbles, and for one terrifying moment Alexander thinks that he may just fall back asleep like this. Leaving him tense and hyper aware of the heat of their skin where their arms meet. “What’d you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Probably  _ take care  _ of it.” 

“Oh is that all?” Jefferson’s mutters into his hair. “Cause, I could think of few way to solve our problem.” 

With that, he grinds himself along the cleft of his ass.

Hamilton gasps. “What did I tell you! Not until you’re sober enough to fucking consent.”

He can feel the way Thomas’ lips curve up as they press into his shoulder, a teasing little smirk that makes Alexander’s heart shudder. “I am sober, now anyway. And I can prove it too” he says, voice deep and still dragging along every vowel, hanging on every consonant.    
“How?” Alexander snaps

“Easy, I’ll tell you how every point of your little education plan is complete and utter shit. Firstly-” he presses his hips forward. “We can’t just do away with the common core structure model, it's already too ingrained into the system, you’ll never be able to fully expedite it.”

The drag of Jefferson cock across his lower back shoots sparks up Alexander’s spine, even though layers of cloths. 

“Okay okay okay okay, you’re sober, I believe you. Totally one hundred percent believe you Just- please stop talking about work right now.” Hamilton girts out. The pressure of Jefferson dick against him is so distracting. His breath is starting to come in uneven, shallow inhalations, a blush blooming over his cheeks. 

There are fingers against the back of his neck now, sweeping the hair away from his skin, which has grown damp from the heat of their entwined bodies. Lips, soft and cautious land on the nape of his neck, the slight scratch of stubble following them. 

“Alexander’ Thomas mutters, and chill runs the length of his spine. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

“Fuck, no.”  Alexander bites down on his lower lips. “Don’t stop”

He can feel the smirk against his pulse point, and this time he really does shudder. Lips drag along his skin, barely touching him, just a whisper of pressure as they creep up along his neck and slide slowly along his jaw.

Jefferson kisses him once behind the ear “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that” he whispers, before gentle taking the lobe between his teeth. 

Instantly Alexander aches into the feeling, little surprised gasp leaving his lips as he does so. The hands around him lower to his waist, curving around him tightly and holding him in place as Thomas starts to roll his own hip up into him. He hums along the shell of his ear, sounding relieved. Fingertips trace over the elastic of Alexander’s sweatpants, then they dip down, dancing across his ass. Jefferson takes handfuls of his flesh and kneads them in his palms, causing Alexander to whimper. 

“You’ve thought about this often then?” Hamilton asks breathlessly.

“All the time” Thomas responds, thrusting up into him, causing a wave of heat to explode from Hamilton’s chest. 

He lays his head back against his shoulder. “Tell me”

Another pleased sigh from Jefferson. Lips play along the ridge of his neck briefly before he feels the sharp edges of his teeth, a possessive little nip. “Fuck Alexander.” he breaths out, searing the words into Hamilton’s skin. “All the time. When you talk and when you write, just watching the way your body moves is unfair.”

Loose curls brush along the place where his blood pulses hotly below his skin and Alexander shivers at their slight touch, every nerve alight as Jefferson continues to roll his hips up against the clothed cleft of his ass. It too hot, both of them under the blankets, pressed together like this, but his lethargic limbs refuse to move. Thomas doesn’t seem to want to  change the angle either. He drops his hands from Hamilton’s ass, instead dragging them slowly over his sides. Over the strip of bare skin exposed by Alexander’s shirt riding up, dancing his fingertips over the sharp edges of his hip bones and the soft valley between them, causing Alexander’s  lower belly to jump and tremble with anticipation. 

Another languid kiss just behind his jaw, like Jefferson is seeking out the points that make his insides shudder “It’s the worst on friday’s, when you wear those little black jeans of yours. Do you know what an indecent little slut you look like in those? They don't leave anything from me to imagine.”

Jefferson grips the hem of his shirt, tugging in an almost desperate manner.    
“Please” he begs, breath harsh in Hamilton’s ear. “I need to feel you. Every bit of you.”

Alexander nods mutely, bending and twisting himself eagerly to help Thomas rid him of his clothes. Being free of the thin shirt is only a small relief though. The thrust of the other man’s hips gets him harder with each pass but it's not nearly enough, and his voice, deep and hoarse in Alexander’s ear only frustrates him further. He whines, shutting his eyes, shutting out everything that isn’t Thomas, and arches under his touch. He never knew he could be so desperate for simple contact, but Jefferson tends to bring out the most ravenous parts of his personality. Hands glide over his chest, leaving a violent flush in their wake that must glow against the darkness of the early morning. Fingers trace along the edges of his ribs, so apparent just below the surface of his thin skin. They press along the hills and sweep over the valleys before they glide upward and scratch lightly over Hamilton’s nipple until he’s thrusting up helplessly at the air. 

Jefferson is like sandpaper, coarse and fine. Wearing away at Alexander, rubbing the rough parts of him smooth, hands eroding away his defences and leaving him raw. He moans, loudly, hoping Jefferson will get the hint and do something other than map his body with those wicked hands of his. 

“So beautiful” Thomas mutters along the back of his neck, mouthing up to where the soft, downy hairs start to sprout from his head. “So pretty when you need me this bad.”

Alexander tries to imagine what Jefferson might look like right now. He can feel the roll of his pelvis against his ass, feel the hot breath puffing along his neck and sweat dampened fabric of his shirt along his now bare back, curved around him. He imagines him with his head bowed down, the length of his body molding against his own. His eyes screwed shut, lips parted and running all along his neck and his shoulder in a desperate sort of way, leaving strips of cool wetness on his boiling skin before they evaporate into nothing. Sweat dewwing his brow, long curls clinging to his forehead as well as Alexander's skin as he mutters sweet nonsense into his ear. 

Thomas’ finger tap along Hamilton’s stomach as they move lower, lower to fiddling with the elastic of his sweatpants.

“May I?”

“If you don’t hurry up and do it already, I’ll kill you” Hamilton pants back. 

Jefferson chuckles as he pulls them down along with his boxers, a sound that bounces through Hamilton’s chest and makes him whine. If he doesn’t start doing something, Alexander is going to lose his mind. This little bit that he’s been given is already driving him mad, half hard and barely touched.

All thoughts of dissatisfaction burst into a flurry of ashes however, when he feels the stiff, pulsating heat of Jefferson’s dick against him. Hands are on his ass again, gently pulling him apart so he can settle in between. Thomas hisses in his ear. 

“Alexander” he moans.

His first thrust sends spasms of pleasures though Hamilton’s  legs, thighs twitching and back bowing. The angle’s no good, pressed flush to each other like this.. Jefferson rocks upward again, the leaking head of his cock glide over Alexander’s hole, not able to press in. Hamilton whimpers arching and pressing back, searching for just the slighted bit of a relief.

Thomas is breathing hard now, the tremendous rise and fall of his chest apparent along Alexander spine. Again he thrusts, and again does little more then gently probed his entrance. 

“No good?” he asks, voice tight and utterly fucked

Alexander shakes his head, biting down hard on his lower lip until he can taste the skin start to break. He feels so touch-starved, fingers wound tight into the bed sheets. 

“Hey.” There’s a guiding pressure on his neck, fingers- his lust addled mind supplies. They tip and turn his head back until the stretch is a little uncomfortable.  There’s breath on his cheeks “Hey look at me.”

Hamilton peels back his eyelids. His gaze immediately connects with Thomas’, his desperate,strung out features consume all else in view. He leans in and captures Alexander mouth in a messy kiss, all tongues and teeth and heat. The kiss is such a relief that Hamilton nearly sobs into it. Their shuddering breath intermingled between them, hot and thick and he can feel a trickle of spilt rolling down his chin when they part. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long” Thomas groans. “Wanted this pretty little ass all to myself.”

Hamilton grinds back against him, feeling the hiccup of his lungs in his chest. “What did you want to do to me?”

Jefferson presses their foreheads together “Bend you over my desk and teach you what the mouth of yours is really good for.”

“Kinky,”  he teases.

The sudden hand on his own aching cock snags any further remarks in the back of his throat. Alexander moans wantonly, a hand flying back to bury itself in Jefferson’s springy curls. He never thought being touched could feel this good, but Thomas’ longer, dexterous fingers around his length are impossibly hot and tight, and every pass of them over his cock head sets him more on edge. 

“Stop talking,” Jefferson breathes. 

It’s been to long since the last time, Alexander feeling like he’s going up in flames, rocking into the ring of Jefferson’s fingers, back onto the pressure of his dick, slotted tightly to his back.  He needs to finish, before he snaps under the weight of what Thomas can do to him. Before these brilliant hands whether him down to nothing, rub him raw and leave him bleeding and needy and exposed. 

Thomas directs him to look back up with the thumb of his free hand under his chin.

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” He whispers, carefully combing the loose hair from Alexander’s eyes. “If I’d known that you wanted me as bad as I wanted you, maybe I wouldn’t have been such  a coward all these years. Alexander.” His thrusts have grown quicker, rougher and ruthless. He slings a leg around Hamilton’s thigh to hold him in place as he rocks upward into the heat between their bodies. “I love you, I love you.” 

He punctuates every phrase with a kiss to Alexander’s neck and jaw and shoulder, the words quickly losing their structure as Thomas teeters on the edge, become a garbled mess of half formed syllables and needy moans. 

Chasing his own release, Hamilton grabs hold of Thomas hand and guilds it up his chest. The fingertips press reverently wherever they find skin. He drags them over his nipple again, digging them into the soft skin. Alexander aches and moans, chest heaving with too much and  then the tension breaks with a sound like snapping plywood and he’s spilling himself over Jefferson’s fist. 

It takes a moment and few deep breaths before he comes back down enough to feel the sticky warmth along his back and Thomas panting harshly in his ear with his sweat slicked forehead to his shoulder. He still strokes Alexander in a lazy, absent hold and that, couple with the feeling of release on his back makes him spill a little more. He watches the white, ropy strains spill over Jefferson fingers  with bleary eyes, cock trying, and failing to take interest. He’s to tired and slowly growing overstimulated from Thomas’ lingering touch. He carefully bats the other man’s hand away so he has some space to breathe.

Hamilton would really rather not move, not when his veins are humming with pleasure and the clock on his bedside tables informed him that it’s four and some odd minutes in the morning. But even now the come is starting to dry uncomfortably to his skin.  So he whines, hoping Jefferson  will get what he means and clean the both of them up, because Alexander is already starting to burrow back into the sheets, on the edge of falling asleep. As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he feels the scrap of fabric along his back, and though he has no idea where Jefferson got the cloth, because he doesn’t remember feeling the bed dip, he lets out a little contented hum and falls back asleep in the loose circle of Thomas’ arms. They don’t talk about it that night. 

  
  
  


When next Hamilton wakes, the clock tells him that it’s nealy nine forty in the morning, far later than he usually likes to sleep in. But he’s a little less concerned with the time right now, more focused on the man curled into his back, soft curls brushing over the tops of his shoulders. There are still arms loosely draped around him, gently cradling him to Jefferson’s chest, and Alexander’s stomach sort of twists uneasily. A multitude of emotions rush through him all at once. He wants to feel happy and contented. Thomas told him he loves him last night, they’d had sex last night. Under normal circumstances, he’s be downright giddy. But that’s just it, Jefferson had told him he  _ loves _ him last night. Last night, under the cover of dark and egged on by alcohol. What if he wakes up this morning and suddenly decides that it was all a mistake, that really, all Hamilton is good for is a roll in the hay and promptly drops him. Alexander’s not sure exactly when his fears shifted, when he suddenly got so attached to Thomas that the idea of him just walking out makes his heart clench in his chest but it does. It’s an overwhelming feeling, too much for him to handle. Jefferson isn’t up yet, he doesn’t have to deal with it right now, so he doesn’t.

Instead of trying to sort through his feelings, Alexander carefully maneuvers his way out of Thomas’ hold. The other man gives a soft grunt as Hamilton slides out of his arms but does little more than that. Heavy sleeper, he notes, saving that little bit of information in the back of his mind with all the other things about Thomas that he finds compelling.

As he slips out from under the duvet, he accidentally takes some things with him. The shirt he’d been wearing the night before, as well as his sweat pants and two pairs of of boxers, solid black and green flannel. He slips on his boxers first, feeling weirdly exposed like this, then scoops up the shirt, which is crumpled up into a ball. When he tries to pull it apart, the fabric resists, stiff and fibers fused together. Hamilton grimaces as he tosses into the nearby hamper, slowly piecing together some of the events from last night that he missed. Of course he would use Hamilton’s shirt to clean them up.

Well, he’s at least thankful Jefferson didn’t think to use the bedsheets.

Alexander creeps his way into the bathroom, wanting to rid himself of the stench of nicotine and sex. The door shuts behind him with a little snap and he lets out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding in, both happy not have woken Jefferson and glad to have a little privacy, a few blissful minutes to think of nothing but the rush of water over his skin However, as he reaches over to adjust the dial on his showerhead,  a array of purples and reds flash in the corner of his eye. He pauses, stomach flipping ing chest, and cranes his neck to get a better look a the perverse painting Thomas has left along the canvas of his back in the mirror. Bruises decorate his neck from hairline to the joint of his shoulder, continuing further to adorn the tops of his shoulders as well.  A mess of vivid, fresh marks splattered across his sallow brown skin. He slaps a hand to them subconsciously. He can still feel the heat of them under his palm, violent. At the base of his neck are deep purple welts, teeth marks, he marveled as he glides his fingertips over the groves, a discolored ring of flesh that seems to to claim him. What will Thomas say when sees it?

Alexander shakes that thought from his head and steps into the shower, under the scalding spray of water. Steam quickly fills the small bathroom, swirling up towards the ceiling in pearly tendrils and Hamilton rest his forehead to the cool tile, It’s damp, almost clammy against his skin. He lets the water rush over his back, washing any remnants of Jefferson’s- release- down the drain. And yet, no matter how he tries to lose himself in the sharp sound of water on the showers plastic floor, his stomach still curls in on itself.

What happened last night was his fault. He was the one who went to the bar with his stupid plan to get the virginian to talk, he was the one who kept pushing the drinks, laughing as the other man started to babble. He’d decided to take Jefferson home, he was the one who climbed into bed with him, and he did nothing to stop what they’d done last night. He could have, could have pushed him off and told him no. Thomas had given him a chance back out. But he hadn’t, he hadn't wanted to. How could he have passed the opportunity. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted, a one night stand with Thomas ‘lord those fingers’ Jefferson, and it had been more than he expected. No, Alexander doesn’t regret his decision. 

He just wishes he’d had a little more time.

Hamilton traces the heated ridges of the bruises on his shoulder blade. They’re still tender to the touch, promising to remind him of that night for weeks to come. Whenever he’ll catch them in the mirror, whenever someone mentions them to him, because Jefferson is one of those assholes who leaves marks above the collar, he’ll be reminded of this. Alexander sighs heavily and starts to wash his hair, carefully detangling strands that have knotted at the base of his neck. 

When he feels sufficiently clean, skin damp and red tinted from the heat of the water, he turns off the flow and steps out to toweled himself off. He slips back in his boxers and heads back into his room.

Thomas is still asleep, thankfully, but it seems he woke just enough in the time Hamilton was gone to commandeer all the bed sheets for himself. He’s wrapped them tight around his tall form, pulling them up past his ears so that only a ‘poof’ of wild ebony curls poke out from the top. Alexander can’t help the soft smile that turns up the corners of his mouth. It’s endearing to see Jefferson swaddled up like this. It’s a sight he could get used to if he’s being honest. But that doesn’t matter because when he gets up, the virginian is going to be pissy and hungover and he’s not going to want to stay. Because the booze had him talking out of his ass last night. He was just lonely, and Alexander was there and lonely too. And they did and said what lonely people do to get through one more night. So again, it doesn’t matter. 

With that thought like a stone in his stomach, Alexander tiptoes over to his dresser and pulls out  a clean shirt and grabs his phone,  before sneaking out of the room to make breakfast. 

The apartment is always still first thing in the morning. Everything bathed in soft light, and quiet, except for the rumble of cars in the street below. Hamilton makes his way into his tiny kitchen. The fridge is nearly empty when he opens it. There’s a stick of butter on the top shelf, along with two cartons of yogurt he doesn’t remember buying. There’s an untouched package of bacon, a loaf of bread, a carton of orange juice that, if he’s being honest, is probably only half full, a bottle of ketchup and a few bottles of red gatorade. He grabs the bacon and the gatorade and slams the fridge shut. He should go shopping, if he can find the time, but he can never find the time so.

Hamilton grabs out a pan and that non stick spray that smells so much like chemicals when he sprays it over the sliver bottom of the skillet that it makes him wonder if it’s even safe to use, turns the heat on low and starts laying out the bacon. It makes that wonderful sizzling sound as it hits the hot pan, bubbling and turning brown at its edges. Alexander takes a sip of his gatorade as he watches it cook, even if he hadn’t drank enough last night to get as hammered as Jefferson, he can still feel the slight pulse of an oncoming headache behind his right eyes. That’s what he gets for not hydrating before he’d gone to bed. The bacon fries gently over the low heat, practically swimming in its juices and the smell alone is enough to make Hamilton’s mouth water as he gently prods at it with the end of his spatula. 

He’s just starting to remove the first finished strips when he hears the heavy thump of footsteps on the hard wood, coming down the hall. His breath catches in his chest, but he doesn’t turn until he hears a groggy. “Fuck, it’s bright in here’ from the doorway.

Jefferson leans heavy on the door frame, one hand rubbing hard into his furrowed brow. His head must be pounding and that would be hilarious, if Alexander weren’t so concerned. 

“Morning” He offers weakly.   
Jefferson glares at him from between his fingers. “Fuck off” 

He looks a mess. Hair sticking out in a million directions, dark bags under his eyes, once again wearing Hamilton’s two sizes too short for him sweatpants and the the t shirt with the peeling letters and huge stain on the front. Alexander swallows and turns his attention back to the bacon to distract himself from the small jolt of heat that raced through him at the sight. 

“Your shirt” he mumbles, glancing at Thomas out of the corner of his eye. 

It seem to take the other man a moment to process what he’d said He squinted at Alexander, then slowly lowers his gaze down to his shirt front. Then he groans. 

“Fuck” he breathes

He slips the shirt off over his head and tosses it to the floor,  then slinks over to the little, cheap wooden table in the center of the tiled floor, shoulders hunched up around his ears. 

“I hate alcohol” Jefferson mutters horsely, burying his face in his hands as he drops into a chair. “I’m never touching it again. God, my fucking head, I must be dying.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, turning off the heat on the stove. “Stop being so melodramatic, you’re fine you big baby. Look, I even made you breakfast, how lucky are you.”

Jefferson eyes the plate Alexander his heaping with bacon wearily. “I’m not hungry”

He’s probably nauseous, Hamilton thinks, taking the taller man's sour expression and glassy eyes. He proceeds to set the food down in front of him anyway.

“Greasy breakfast is the best thing for a hangover.” Hamilton states. “But do whatever you want, I can’t make you eat, I’m not your mother.”   _ And i’m not your boyfriend either. _

Thomas grimaces, but picks up some bacon anyway. “Thank you.”

Alexander settles in the seat across from him. “Don’t mention it.”

They eat in silence for the most part, for the first time  he can think of, Hamilton doesn’t want to be the first to speak. He knows they have to talk about this but- he’s being a coward about it, and Jefferson still looks like he may collapse. He sits there, clutching his head in one hand while he forces himself to eat, grimacing the whole time.

Alexander holds out his gatorade to him. “Drink”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want you shitty gatorade.”

“Aw come,” Hamilton teases gently. “It’s got like, electrolyte and all the fun stuff in it.”

“I don’t like the red, reminds me of when I would get sick as child.” He snaps back.   
Alexander bristles and rolls his eyes, because that’s a stupid reason to keep suffering like this. “Jefferso-”

Jefferson slams his hands against the table top, hard enough to make the dishes rattle. “Thomas! It’s Thomas! Why can’t you just-” he covers his face with his hands, voice cracking. “ You’d think after everything that-! Fuck, you know what, just, nevermind. I just want to go home and die peacefully.” he mutters, the word muffled by his fingers. 

Alexander blinks. Startled doesn’t even begin to cover how he feels. Jefferson looks, physically strung out, jaw clenched tight, shoulders ridged, back curved upward like a startled cat. 

After a moment of suffocating silence Hamilton tries to speak. 

“Thomas?” he says soft, and marvels as  a shiver races down the other man's spine. “You can- you can stay, it you want.”

Thomas snap his head up in Hamilton’s direction. “What?” he hisses

Hamilton’s fingers fidget with the edge of his plate. “Well, I just thought, because- you look like shit so maybe, if you wanna just, hang out here until you feel up to it. Cause I know you have to drive, if you wanna just wait until you’re feeling better, you can stay here.” He rambles, letting the words peter out at the end into nothing.   
Another stretch out silence between them, filled with what neither of them wants to bring up. The tension is palpable and Alexander feels like he’s drowning in it. So he opens his mouth to speak.

But Jefferson beats him to the punch. 

“I don’t regret it” He says plainly, taking Alexander by surprise. He’s glaring hard at his plate. “What- happened last night, I don’t regret any of it. What we did, what -” he swallows “What I said. So... “

“Oh” Hamilton says weakly. He heart is hammering in his chest, threatening to bruise his ribcage. “So when you said that you-”

“Yes” 

“And when you said I was smart?” He tires 

“Yes” Thomas mutters bitterly, not looking at Alexander.

A small smile works its way onto his face. “And when you said that you think I have a great ass too”

Jefferson slumps down in his seat, an embarrassed groan slipping past his lips. “Fuck, did I say that? I don’t remember much before spilling water all over myself.”

Alexander hums playfully, leaning onto his elbows. “Oh you said plenty of interesting stuff at the bar.”

Thomas peeks out at him though his fingers. “What are you talking about?”

A wicked little grin curves at the corners of his mouth as he pulls out his phone, cueing up one of the videos he'd taken last night, watching with glee as Jefferson’s expression morphs into one of utter horror.

He makes a grab for the phone but Alexander yanks it out of his reach. 

“Delete that, now” Jefferson growls.

Hamilton hums again, slowly rising from his seat. “Sure, but what about the other six I have?” He hits play on another.

“Alexander” the other man warns, and of course, Alexander pays him no mind.

“Wonder where the best place to post these would be. Twitter or YouTube?”

“Give me that phone!” Jefferson screeches, jumping up from his chair.

Alexander cackles like a maniac and sprints out of the kitchen. He doesn’t make it very far, not when he’s competing against Thomas’ huge stride. The taller man grabs him around the middle, tackling him onto the sofa. They hit the cushions with a huff, Jefferson on top. He strains for the phone, still playing the video, but Hamilton some how manages to keep it out of reach. 

“Get off! Get off of me!” he shouts through his laughter, his heels and his knees scrabbling against Jefferson stomach to keep him at bay.

They thrash for a moment, legs kicks, arms failing, until Thomas manages to  lock a hand around Alexander’s free wrist. Knowing that he’s beat, Hamilton toss the phone over the arm of the couch, onto the floor behind him.

Both men are panting, sprawled out on the cushions with Jefferson practically straddling Alexander. Hamilton flushes bright pink along his ears and cheeks and neck, laughter catching in his throat as his eyes wander over the expanse of Jefferson bare chest and stomach, a sight he’d not had a chance to behold before this. The position they’re in is, compromising at best. Hamilton swallows, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly very dry lips. 

It’s quite aside from the faint sound of the video still playing on the floor, the sound of Jefferson’s drunken babble and Alexander's laughter.  He glances up to the other man’s face. Thomas looks cracked, like he’s one gust of wind away from shattering into a million little pieces under Alexander’s hands. Their gaze locks for a moment. Jefferson’s deep eyes hold no substance in this moment, only depth. Hollowness. Then his head sags, hitting Hamilton squarely in the chest.

“I’m pathetic.” he mutters into Alexander’s shirt front. 

The hand around his wrist goes limp. Jefferson’s whole body goes limp against him.

“You’re not pathetic.” Alexander says softly, hesitating to lay his hand on the other man’s side.

Thomas chuckle, weak and humorlessly. “I am though. I’m such a fucking mess. I- have to drink, before I can speak to crowds of people” he grits out with effort. 

“I know” Alexander has his gaze fixed on some random point on the wall  over the Virginian's  shoulder. “You told me last night.”

“‘Course I did” Thomas responds bitterly. “Doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a coward. Mind as well get everything out now.”

They’re quiet for a moment, the video has stopped so they just lay there in the silence of the morning. Alexander rubs his thumb in slow careful circles against Jefferson’s side , the only motion he can think of to comfort him. He still has his head buried in Hamilton’s shoulder. 

“You can stay, you know” he mummers

Thomas huffs. “You already said that, jackass”

“No-” Alexander brings his other hand up, carding his fingers though the other man’s hair until he looks up with tired eyes. “You can  _ stay _ \- like  _ stay _ , if you want.”

Jefferson can’t seem to meet his gaze. 

“I know that you’re lonely,” he continues “ I’m lonely too, so- maybe, we can just  be lonely together for a while.”

A breath of laughter passes Jefferson’s lips. “You do know how fucked up that sound right?”

“What I mean is-” Hamilton tries “This doesn’t have to be anything serious, right now. I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend or anything, I just think that, we’re both a little old to still believe in perfect ending wrapped up in shiny bows. Just- just stay for now, and we can see what happens from there” He gazes imploringly up at Thomas at this point, thumb sweeping over the curve of his jaw. “Thomas”

He shakes his head. “God, I must be really fucked up if I’m even considering this.” he locks eyes with Alexander. “I’ll stay”

A grin breaks out over Hamilton’s face, the weighty stone in his stomach dissolving like a sugar cube in water. “Thank god you said yes, because I didn’t know how much longer I could go without kissing you when you're on top of me like this.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, but Alexander sees the faint smile in the corners of his mouth. “You’re so damn needy.”

With that, he lowers his mouth to Alexander, laying a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips.

Hamilton hums against his Thomas’ mouth. “Not as needy as you were last night”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
